Curse-Breaking With A Manticore
by Flipspring
Summary: Draco runs into a manticore. Harry still has to take his NEWTs despite having defeated the greatest dark wizard ever. Somebody is trying to use the muggle Internet to blow the cover off the entire magical world. Quite a few swear words. Drarry (slowburn). This fic updates 2 or 3 times per week.
1. Draco: Meet The Manticore

The Malfoys escaped the Battle of Hogwarts amongst the smoke and sting of cursefire, sprinting along the grounds as the air shimmered and boiled with magically murderous intent. Draco could feel the echoes of the surrounding spellwork deep in his chest, reverberating like the worst kind of orchestral cacophony. As soon as they were clear of the school wards, Narcissa grasped her husband and son, and twisted through the dimensions of the world.

They Apparated into the foyer of the Manor.

Draco stumbled. His mother caught him, hugged him to her chest. She had been shorter than him for a while now, but all of a sudden he felt like a child again in her arms. He was shaking, the air trembling on its way in and out of his lungs, but his mother was steady as stone, warm as sunlight.

"We're fucked," he whispered, and his mother hugged him tighter.

He heard footsteps, and saw his father wobble out of the entrance hall.

"Mum," Draco said, and his mother held him at arms length, stared at him, jaw set, eyes hollow.

"I'm giving the Singhs a call," she said, "Why don't you go get cleaned up?"

She gave her best effort at a smile. It looked like it hurt.

"Yes, Mum," Draco said.

She squeezed his arms, and let go, and headed to go use the Archway Mirror.

Draco stood there in the foyer for a while, staring at the crack in the floor tile where Macnair had dropped a muggleborn from ceiling-height. He stared at at the broken sconce as it flickered sporadically. That's where Aunt Bellatrix had impaled a ministry hostage.

He looked down at his feet. There were still some prisoners in the cellars, probably. He started to feel sick, but then shut the feeling aside, and took to the stairs to his bedroom and bathroom.

The bath was drawn and steaming, scented with a clear, sweet smell that was reminiscent of (and nothing actually like) the seashore. He peeled his robes off, the smell of ash and sweat and magical discharge stinging his nose like static, and sank into the water.

Draco was asleep and dreaming of nothing when his mother knocked at the door and opened it.

"Draco, darling," she said.

He didn't appreciate being brought back to consciousness.

"What." He didn't lift his head.

"We're leaving. The Singhs would love to have us pay them a visit. It's been so long since you've seen your fifth cousins, won't that be nice?"

Draco opened an eye and stared at the dark silhouette of his mother in the doorway.

"When."

"As soon as you're ready." Her silhouette departed the doorway.

He lay there in the dark, in the softness of his bed, balancing on the very edge between awake and asleep. He didn't want to get up. He couldn't.

"Get up," he said to himself.

His mother came back at some point. He didn't know how long it had been.

"Draco," she said. Her voice was sharp.

He sat up.

"Join us down by the mirror in five minutes."

And so he did. The Archway mirror rose from the floor, twisting with intricate knots and carvings, rising up and tapering to a point. The surface of the mirror shimmered and rippled like water, indistinct.

His father was sitting hunched on a hovering trunk. His mother took her wand out and touched the mirror surface, and ripples spread out from the tip, shimmering until the image of a warm and sunlit room appeared.

With that, she holstered her wand up her sleeve and stepped through. Draco glanced at his father, who had made no sign of moving from his trunk. Then he stepped through the archway after his mother.

The air that bathed him on the far side of the mirror was warm and thick with humidity, smelling pleasantly floral. A woman straightened up from where she had been bent over a desk. Her hair was greying, her brown skin wrinkled. Her smile was wide. She bowed her head slightly to Draco as he came through the archway. He returned the bow, more deeply.

"Oh, how tall you are now Draco," said Lady Singh, in a voice accented by aristocracy and foreignness.

"Again, our most gracious thanks for your hospitality," said Mother, producing a basket of fine wine and foodstuffs.

Lady Singh rebuffed the gift once, and then took it gracefully with a, "Oh, Narcissa! This was not necessary. It is lovely to have the opportunity to see one another after so long."

"I feel the same," Mother responded, with real warmth.

It was morning here in India, so Draco had the whole day to kill while his parents (well, primarily his mother) gossiped and chatted with Lady Singh. Her demeanor was poised, even joyful, betraying none of the turmoil their family had endured over the past few years. He had joined them for tea for a while, and then excused himself the instant it was appropriate for him to do so.

"Oh, Draco," said Lady Singh, as he left, "Do enjoy the gardens! We have quite a few unusual specimens. If you'd like to walk the full grounds please do be cautious, we have a few very rare and very dangerous endangered beasts. My daughter will be home in the evening, I'm sure she'd be happy to escort you around the grounds."

And that led Narcissa to inquire about the beasts, and share land husbandry stories from the Manor, and so on and so forth.

Draco found his way to the gardens, eventually, and settled himself into an incredibly comfortable wicker-and-cushion chair. He watched the butterflies and pixies dance by, and the shadows crawl along the immaculately tended pathway.

It made sense for his mother to have evacuated them from Britain, but in his opinion it was a move that stank of guilt. It wouldn't look good to the courts back home, if Potter won. He wondered, vaguely, if he would ever set foot back in the Manor, or if he would marry one of his fifth cousins here, join the Singh household, raise a family. The younger one was just five years older than him, he knew. As ancient and pure the Malfoy family was, Singh was even more ancient, and possibly purer. Thus tradition stated he would take the surname, and the messy Malfoy history would melt seamlessly away.

It seemed nice, he decided. His mother had figured it all out. But he had always vaguely imagined a union with one of his classmates – there were several with suitably pure lineages – growing up and inheriting his father's place, sending his children off to Hogwarts. If he became a Singh here, he'd be out of touch, out of place in an unfamiliar culture and language. He'd have to pick up Arabic and Hindu and perhaps Urdu. He knew he could do it, but it would be a pain in the ass.

Would Potter win? Was he winning, now, all the way over in Britain, the golden savior boy that everybody loved, who always did the right thing in the right way at the right time. Who was good-hearted and noble and brave and beautiful, who, if he bested the Dark Lord, would surely have his pick of any partner who crossed his path. He would have a lovely, rich life and probably a hundred children. Or maybe, knowing him, he'd probably go ahead and pick some dirt-blooded muggle trash and settle down happily.

Draco covered his eyes with both palms. Fuck Harry Potter and all that noise. Fuck Voldemort.

He fell asleep in the garden chair, and woke just as the sun was setting.

A woman stood before him, younger than Lady Singh, with a glittering stud in her nose and sheer robes of delicate gold and green.

"Hello cousin," she grinned, one hand on her hip, "Remember me?"

"Hello Samira," he said, "And no I don't."

"Ha. What's up? Is your mum trying to get us to fall in love?"

Draco snorted. She laughed, joyously and delicately, and tugged at the cloth draped over her head.

"So is it true then, that you're all grown up and evil now?" her eyes flashed a little, and her grin widened.

"Just a little," he responded, dryly.

"Hm," she said, and eyed him up and down, "You're skinny."

"And you're fat."

"Except _I_ make it work," she said, truthfully, "Well, we'll probably never fall in love, cousin. But I'm told and exotic and well-bred husband with a _slightly_ dark past would be good for my reputation. However, I'll have you know I've been courting around, so you'll have to bring a little bit more to the table. Come to dinner."

Draco stood, and followed her to the dining room.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of alternating naps and walks around the grounds with Samira. She'd always been a good cousin; mean enough to be fun, civil enough to be pleasant. But he spent most of his days sleeping, and she spent most of her nights out on the town.

"You should go with her to one of those parties she goes to," Mother told him one afternoon, "If for nothing else, the chance to enjoy one of the largest all-magic cities in the world."

"I went as a kid," he said shortly.

"It's different as an adult," she said mildly, "I'd have thought you knew that. It worries me that you're wasting your days and Lady Singhs' hospitality with sleeping. Do you need to see a Healer?"

Draco shrugged. He didn't say that maybe sleeping was a great way not to get into any trouble. That maybe he was tired of wakeful life, which was full of bullshit like dark magic and political intrigue and reminders of his failures and expectations for his future and… What would he have done with his life, if all this crap with the Dark Lord had never happened? Lord around the Manor, probably. Make his opinions known at the Wizengamot. He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. All he knew was guilt, and anger, and a bone-deep tiredness. And he slept easily, with occasional dreams, occasional nightmares, but those were hazy and faded and not all that real.

So it was strange, that one night he woke with a start. The moon was up, and bright. He stared at the ceiling for maybe an hour, before he sat up, put his robes on, and went out for a walk.

He strode through the palace, until he finally came to one of the back exits, which led into the thick vegetation behind the house. The trees chirped and hummed and buzzed with insect life, and he walked down the wide dirt road, the moon lighting his way in a silver almost as bright as daylight.

He was just thinking about turning and heading back, when he heard a sound behind him, like soft music, harps and flutes.

He turned.

There, standing in the road behind him, was a manticore.

It had to be a manticore, it could be nothing else. It had an angular human face, framed by a wild, dark mane. Its paws were enormous, and its tail arched over its back, gleaming menacingly in the moonlight, sting poised, spines trembling.

The soft music was coming from the manticore, and it advanced on him, step by step, eyes unblinking, its smiling mouth full of pointed fangs.

When it had come so close Draco could have reached out and touched it, the music stopped.

His heart was pounding. He was rooted to the spot. He tried to recall any useful information about this beast.

 _Hide almost impervious to magic. Swallows its prey whole. Incredibly violent. Difficult to subdue. Sting causes painful and swift death. Can shoot spines from its tail from a great distance._

Fuck if any of that was remotely useful. He let his wand fall into his hand. It was Protego or nothing, probably.

The manticore lunged at him, knocking him down before he could even shout out the spell, knocking his wand from his hand. The back of his head hit the ground painfully, the weight of the manticore on his chest suffocating him, and the creature's face tilted back, as the manticore opened a huge jaw below its human-face, full of three sets of fangs and a great, writhing tongue.

Draco lay there, and stared past the manticore's maw at the night sky.

"If you could eat me feet-first, please," he said hoarsely, "I think I'd prefer that to headfirst."

The manticore's tongue writhed. And then slowly, its great monstrous jaw closed, and it tilted its false-face forward again, the dark human eyes blinking down him.

"Ohhh, you are _funny_ ," it purred, "What's your name?"

* * *

Note: This fic is cross-listed on Ao3.

Thanks 4 readin' all. Pls comment :)


	2. Harry: Bleeps

In the weeks after vanquishing Voldemort, Harry went home with Ron and Hermione to the Burrow. It felt like a life that was not his own, a blessed life bathed in a soft glow, especially after the absolute nightmare that was the past year. They played Quidditch, played Exploding Snap, had dinner with Andromeda and Teddy Tonks, visited an increasingly-lively Diagon Alley. It was as though Harry had finally opened his eyes, to find the world clearer and brighter and brand new. Even with the shadow of all that had been lost, even with the funerals, there was a light in his chest that was almost overwhelming.

But like most things, it wouldn't quite last.

Harry and Ginny were out back feeding the chickens, when Ginny spoke up.

"I want to break up," she said, and tossed a handful of feed down at her feet. The chickens clucked and rushed over one another in a hungry torrent.

It felt as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"What?"

Ginny didn't look at him. She hid her face behind a gleaming curtain of fiery red hair.

"Why?"

"I dunno," she said, "I'm sorry. It's been great, being with you, but…" She finally looked at him, looked away. "With everything that's happened, you've just… turned into a symbol, I guess, even more than you were before. That's part of it. And it's not that I don't like you, as a person, but. I guess I don't love you. I need to move on from this part of my life. I'm not the girl who was infatuated with the golden boy any more."

There was something squeezing Harry's insides very, very tightly. The past few weeks with Ginny had been halcyon, dreamlike in their perfection. All of a sudden the sweet memories became so very painful.

 _"But I love you,"_ he wanted to say, but didn't.

"Oh," he said instead, and tossed some chicken feed to the ground.

 _"Can we still be friends?"_ he wanted to say, but didn't.

He turned and went back into the Burrow.

And life wasn't quite so golden after that. Hermione went and took an aeroplane to Australia to try and find her parents. Ron woke up with nightmares but refused to talk about it. Ginny was like a ghost in the house they shared.

"Hey, Ron," Harry said, one morning at the breakfast table, casual as could be. Ginny put her plates in the sink and left the room, silently. "I'm going back to Grimmauld Place. Figure I ought to finish getting the place cleaned up. You want to come with?"

Ron looked at him, eyes slightly shadowed. "Yeah… Yeah, 'course."

Grimmauld Place was as grim as ever, with the Dumbledore wraith springing up from the carpet.

"We should find out who cast that and have them get rid of it," Ron said, as the grey thing sank back into the floor, "It's bloody creepy."

"Oh, I dunno, it has its charm. Reminds you of mortality and all," said Harry airily. Ron snorted.

They stood in the entrance hall, neither moving to step deeper into the house.

"You know," said Harry, finally, "I'm gonna make this place _nice_. Sirius hated it and all, but we were all here together, right? It's all I've got left from him."

"That and the piles of Black family gold," Ron reminded him.

"Right," said Harry, trying not to sound bitter, "That's what I get, instead of my family. Piles of gold."

Ron was silent, and then said, "Sorry. I guess that was off-colour. But… I guess this means you're the Heir of House Black, huh? Or are you the Heir of House Potter?"

"I don't really care about that kind of thing," Harry said, and took a step into the house, then another, and another. Ron followed after him.

"Yeah, I'm not telling you to go pull a Malfoy and get a stick transfigured up your arse," said Ron. (Harry snorted.) "But that kind of thing does matter a bit, where the law's concerned."

"You think if I changed my name to Black, I'd stop getting those piles of fan mail?" Harry asked.

"Could be worth a shot," said Ron.

"I'll have to think about it. But in the meantime let's get this place feeling less dank. I think a change in wallpaper could work, don't you?"

"Hm, yeah, I guess," said Ron, glancing at the dark, mildewy wall.

Their first letter from Hermione arrived at Grimmauld place two weeks into their redecoration, and spoke of frustration and impatience. She hadn't found her parents yet. The international Floos were regulated and expensive, and when she'd tried using it her head had spun through the fire for thirty minutes, only to find that Harry and Ron were no longer at the Burrow. She demanded that they get an email account, and wrote her own address: _bookwyrm_.

"What's an ' _eh-mail_ '?" Ron asked, reading over Harry's shoulder. He had a red bandana tied around his head that clashed horribly with his hair, and was holding a duster.

"It's a muggle thing. They're like letters, sent through electricity."

"Well why are they any better than owls, then?"

"They're much faster," said Harry, "Hermione's right, I ought to get a computer. I've got to go to Gringotts to exchange the money. You want to come?"

"Oh fuck yes," said Ron, throwing duster down on the kitchen table, "The dishes can get bloody well fucked."

They changed into Muggle clothes and Floo'd to Diagon Alley. Another boarded-up store had reopened, displaying a new wave of jewel-tone dress robes in the front window.

Harry had a grey beanie pulled low over his forehead, and a coat turned up at the collar to hide some of his face, but still attracted his fair share of stares and fawning. They went to Gringotts, and then on the way out Ron professed a desire to stock back up on owl treats. Once there, they ran into Luna Lovegood.

"Oh, hello," she said, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," said Harry, as Ron went to the counter to pay for the treats.

"Good job with You-Know-Who," she said, "But I suppose you hear that a lot."

"A lot doesn't even begin to cover it."

She smiled. "Well, I'd best be going, I've got an interview at the menagerie. It was nice seeing you again. Come visit sometime, I've improved my Plimpy soup recipe."

"'Course," said Harry, as Ron showed back up.

"Bye," she said, and glided out the door.

Ron stowed the large bag of owl treats in his magically-enhanced pocket, and the two of them strode out the door. They exited Diagon through the Leaky Cauldron, and began their wandering search for a computer store.

"Hey, Ron, d'you suppose we ought to be looking for jobs?" Harry asked, as they stopped in front of a display of muggle toys which seemed to greatly interest Ron.

Ron groaned. "Merlin, Harry, I don't want to think about that. And you don't have to worry about a thing, what's anyone going to do if you show up at their office looking for a job? Turn away the _Boy Who Bloody Lived_?"

"I'll tell them I need you to do all my work for me," Harry said.

Ron grinned, turning away from the shop window. "Cheers. But I'm not doing shit for you ever again. Look what you roped me into last time."

Harry hummed in response, and they went on their way.

They finally found a computer store, and purchased a blue Macintosh. The clerk had showed them all kinds of models and told them about RAMS and memory, but Harry didn't really know the difference. He though the blue would look nice in Sirius' old room. It would match with the new curtains they'd put in. As long as the computer sent emails, he wasn't too fussed.

As he carried the heavy thing out of the store, a thought struck him.

"Oh, crap."

"What?" Ron asked.

"There aren't any outlets at Grimmauld Place, are there?"

"Outlets?"

Harry looked down at the boxed computer in his arms, "Is it even possible to wire the place for Internet?"

Ron looked alarmed. "I don't know what you're talking about. Harry, this is the sort of thing you think about before you drop galleons on a load of muggle junk."

Harry groaned.

"We could ask Dad, though, he's got all sorts of muggle things to work at the Burrow."

"Oh, good."

They found a secluded alley and Apparated home.

Ron's dad was highly enthusiastic at the prospect of setting up a muggle Internet device, "Strictly for academic purposes, of course, you two won't be using this contooter, will you?"

"Oh, of course not, Mister Weasley."

Arthur nodded. "Good. The more complicated the machine, the more… liable it is to develop sentience and such, so, it's best to be cautious. The laws are there for good reason."

Harry tried to look vaguely interested and not deeply guilty.

They did eventually manage to get the computer running and connected to the Internet, and Harry wrote an email to Hermione, with Ron watching with rapt interest over his shoulder.

 _From: hedwig4ever_  
 _To: bookwyrm_

 _Hi Hermione,_  
 _This is Harry, I got a computer. It's kind of confusing._  
 _We're at Grimmauld place, cleaning the place up._  
 _Have you found your parents yet?_  
 _Harry_

He sent it. The two of them waited in front of the screen for a minute.

"Did it work?" Ron wanted to know.

"I guess," said Harry, "The three of us should've gotten enchanted mirrors or something, this is so complicated, with the logging on and the typing."

"Those are pricey though," said Ron, "If this works, it'll be a way better deal. Plus, this computer thing is super cool."

The computer chirped an electronic noise that sounded almost proud.

"Aw," said Ron, "Look, it's happy. We should name it."

"Uh, sure. I'm gonna go make lunch."

"We'll call it Bleeps," said Ron, smugly, "How do you like that, Bleeps?"

Bleeps bleeped happily.

Harry floated the Daily Prophet over the kitchen counter as he prepared the ham sandwiches. There was an article about upcoming Death Eater trials. The Malfoy family had apparently fled to India, which made it incredibly difficult to bring them into court. Aurors had been trying for weeks, but kept running up against the bueraucracy of the Indian magical government.

Harry sliced an apple and frowned. Maybe this was an opportunity to try treading down the path of an Auror, start a career, get a job, but for some reason the idea didn't particularly appeal to him. He'd had quite enough of Voldemort and his followers to last him a hundred lifetimes. He put an apple slice in his mouth and bit down on it, sweetness bursting.

He turned a page on the hovering Prophet and saw another article, about the re-opening of Hogwarts. Repairs were still very much needed, and there were still teaching positions to be filled, but the school was hoping to open on schedule, and there was talk of hosting an eighth year, so that students from the previous year could have a do-over with their education. Nothing was settled yet.

"Oi!" Ron called, from somewhere upstairs, "Bleeps is fucking awesome!"

Harry snorted.

* * *

A/N: write me commmmmrntsss


	3. Draco: Riddle Me This

"Your name, pale one?" the manticore asked, eyes gleaming red, and Draco felt the points of claws dig slightly into his robes.

"Draco… Malfoy," he wheezed.

"How about this, Dray-co Mal-foy," hissed the manticore, "since you are a chatty child instead of a screaming one, which is quite a rare treat! I'll tell you a riddle, and you take one guess. If you win, I'll let you go. If you lose…" the manticore tilted its face back, grinning with its three rows of monster teeth.

"Fine."

The manticore tilted its face forward again, smiling. "If a blue house is made out of blue bricks, a yellow house is made out of yellow bricks, and a red house is made out of red bricks, what is a green house made of?"

"Green bricks," he almost gasped, but stopped himself. Riddles were practically never the obvious answer. What is a green house made of? A greenhouse?

"Glass," he said. The manticore narrowed its eyes, but its grin widened.

"Best two of three, Dray-co."

"You said if I win…"

The claws dug into his chest. Was he just going to have to keep besting the manticore at riddling until daylight broke and someone came looking for him? His wand was just barely out of reach. He'd never been good at wandless magic, but maybe… maybe he could pull it to him while the beast was distracted.

He said, "How about this? We take turns asking riddles. If you miss one, you let me go. If I miss one… you don't."

The manticore tilted its head. "Tell me a riddle, Draco."

Draco wracked his brain for riddles. He'd read a book of them, he thought, when he was a child. Hell if he remembered any good ones.

"Okay," he said, feeling sweat start to dampen his neck, "If I have it, I don't share it. If I share it, I don't have it. What is it?"

The manticore tilted its head in the other direction. It was growling, softly, as it stared down at him.

"Well?" Draco demanded.

"…A secret," said the manticore, "Ooh, I liked that one. Now it's my turn. What is the beginning of eternity, the end of time and space, the beginning of every end, and the end of every place?"

Merlin's pants. He tried focusing on pulling the wand to his hand. No dice. He was hardcore going to die in the gut of a manticore.

"Well?" the manticore demanded.

"Give me a second!" Draco snapped, "You took your sweet time with mine."

Accio! He screamed, inside his head, ignoring the riddle, focusing on one thing only. Come on!

He felt his wand fly into his hand, and shouted, "Protego!"

The manticore snarled as a shield burst between them, shoving it back and away from him. He sat up, shakily, wand held aloft, shield shimmering faintly in the air. The manticore stalked around him, searching for a crack in the shield, and Draco followed it with his wand.

"Dray-co," the manticore sang, and soft, lilting music started to hum from its monster throat once more, "You didn't answer my riddle."

The answer came to him, painted in his mind's eye. This one was a word game.

"The letter E," he spat, "And that's two of three. Let me go."

The manticore sat down on its haunches and stared at him, face cocked slightly to the right. Its stinging tail lashed left and right.

"Why are you here in my forest, anyway?" it asked him.

Draco fought a groan of frustration and exhaustion. He reminded himself that he now had a shield between himself and the beast, which was a much better circumstance to be in than pinned wandless.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh? But why are you here? In my forest?"

"I'm visiting the Singhs," he said.

"The Singhs," the manticore repeated, "Ah. Tell me, have you met Samira?"

"My mother's hoping I marry her," he said dully, "But it's not going great."

"Ohhhhh," said the manticore, eyes widening, "Ohhhh! You're Dray-co Mal-foy! You're family!"

"Uh," said Draco, "Yes, I did tell you so. Are you going to let me walk home now or not?"

"I'll escort you," said the manticore importantly, getting to its feet, "I'll make sure nothing in this forest tries to snatch you. There are quite dangerous creatures living here, you know?"

"Delightful," said Draco acidly, "You'll forgive me if I leave my shield up."

The manticore laughed, and its music faded. "Lady Singh should've told me we had guests. But c'mon. I was so hungry for human flesh, you can't blame me for trying."

"Bloody hell," Malfoy muttered, under his breath.

The manticore padded alongside him all the way down the road. They arrived at the back door of the Singh palace, and the manticore sat back down on its haunches.

"Hey," it said, its face suddenly serious. He still had his wand out in front of him, holding the shield steady.

He narrowed his eyes, backing up against the door.

"Do me a favor, pale one?"

"Depends on the favor."

"Invite me into the palace."

Draco snorted. "Not a chance."

The manticore's tail lashed, once. "Pretty please?"

"Like I said, not a bloody chance in hell."

"Fine, you inedible, intractable bone-tower. Then tell Samira, I remember what she's done."

Without waiting for a reply, the manticore stood, whirled, and loped off into the night.

Draco stood at the doorway for a while, staring into the forest, insect-song ringing in the air. He finally took down the shield and went back inside.

He wouldn't sleep again that night.

Just after dawn, Draco went down to the dining patio in the gardens. Samira was already there, looking sleepy. Her usually immaculate hair was slightly disheveled, her robes informal and beige-toned. She had a book floating open in front of her, and a glass of juice in her hand.

"You're up early," he said to her, and pulled up a chair. A spread of warm food and cold, glistening fruit appeared in front of him.

She looked up from her book, and absently wiped at the corner of her eye.

"You too," she said.

Draco picked up a fork and helped himself to a strawberry. "I went for a walk in the grounds last night."

She kept looking at him. She raised a wand and waved it vaguely, and the book vanished with a soft whoosh.

"That was bold of you. Didn't Mother warn you about the beasts?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I ran into a manticore. Please tell me you only have one of those murderous beasts on your grounds?"

Samira's face remained studiously impassive. "Just the one. I'm impressed you're still here in the waking world."

"It very nearly ate me," he said, as casually as possible, "But in the end it walked me back and asked to be invited in."

Her face was almost rigid in its expressionlessness. "And did you?"

"Of course not," he said, deeply insulted, "Do I look like an idiot?"

After another second of blankness, Samira cracked a smile, "Oh come on, cousin, you're just begging for it now."

"It had a message for you. 'I remember what you've done.' I don't suppose you'll tell me what that means?"

"Nope," she said cheerfully, and waved her wand again. The book popped back into being. "Come with me to town today, I've got some shopping to do."

The downtown turned out to be much louder and more colorful than Draco remembered. The streets were narrow to begin with, and crowded with small stalls full of witches and wizards selling their wares.

Samira slipped through the crowd as easily as water, and Draco fought to keep her in sight, desperately keeping his eyes fixed on the shimmering golden scarf she had draped over head. He suspected it had been enhanced with an Allurement Charm, which thankfully made it easier to follow.

Abruptly, his fifth-cousin squeezed gracefully between two stalls and stepped into a storefront, and when Draco tried to follow her he nearly toppled a delicate stack of crystal cauldrons, and was shouted at for it. He had no idea how Samira, who was surely two or three times as wide as him, was able to navigate the tight spaces with ease.

The store was dimly lit, and pungent with the smell of a thousand spices. He swept his eyes across the store and concluded it must be a specialty apothecary for potion ingredients. Jars and boxes and shelves were stacked floor to ceiling along every wall. Barrels and baskets each labeled in three unrecognizable languages littered the floor. An incredibly bored-looking witch sat behind the counter, wearing three glass lenses over one eye and inspecting an silver egg held in her gloved hand. On the counter was a small basket with two more eggs, and Samira's elbows. She was chatting animatedly at the stoic witch, who eventually set the egg back in the basket and shrugged, shook her head, tapped a hand on the counter.

Samira's grin did not slip, and the two witches argued back and forth, until eventually the clerk nodded and took two of the three eggs. She put them behind the counter, and withdrew a cloth sack that clinked as she set it down on the counter. Samira took the sack, stowed it up her sleeve, and then did the same with the basket.

She turned, golden scarf swirling gently around her as she did so. "Draco! Anything you want from here?"

He shook his head, and watched her purchase a paper bag and several glass jars of ingredients, which she stowed up her sleeve. She then zipped out the apothecary, and he trailed after her.

And so he spent the rest of that morning continually trying to chase down Samira as she went from store to stand to store, selling and buying and selling again. He wondered if this was some sort of test of athletics, and tried not to think about how he'd rather be back at the palace sleeping.

When the sun reached a blazing heat overhead, the two of them stopped at a marble fountain in the middle of a square. Draco felt the cooling charms in his robe working overtime, cool air breezing through his sleeves, but sweat still prickled at his forehead.

"I love this fountain," Samira said, sitting down at the marble edge. She produced about five plates of food from up her sleeve and gestured for him to sit down. He did.

"You've been running me through an obstacle course," he said, picking up a small dumpling-like thing from its floating plate and biting into it.

"And you've been keeping up pretty well," she grinned, "But hm, how do I put this? I think you ought to go back to England."

He stared at her, silently, and raised his eyebrows slightly, putting on and expression of mild discontent.

"Why put me through this rigamarole this morning, then?" he demanded.

"Oh, I didn't want anyone to overhear us," she said, "Look, I like you well enough, but I'm not all that comfortable with the fact that your home country's enforcement officers are after you. Our palace is not some kind of refugee camp. You ought to go sort that out first, and then come back and see if I'm still available."

He took another bite of the dumpling, chewed, swallowed. The spices left his whole mouth tingling.

"You're awfully blunt, aren't you?" he observed, "And you already knew my family was having a… political vacation at your house. Why are you bringing this up now?"

She shrugged. "Hey, it's not my fault your family sided with some nutter who wanted to exterminate the dirty lower castes or whatever it was. A foolish thing to do, if you ask me. If we didn't have the dirty lower castes, just who would you and I be superior to?"

"You haven't answered my question," he said, narrowing his eyes.

She took a piece of naan and dipped it into a sauce. "I guess… I've started to like you a little bit better. But I don't like your baggage. And also…" she paused, leaned in, "I'm worried about you being enchanted by that beast."

"What beast, the manticore?"

Samira nodded.

"You have got to be joking."

"I'm deadly serious," she said, though she was smiling faintly, "That creature is under a curse, only to be lifted if it eats enough people and enchants enough people. I've had three suitors fall in love with it already. And eaten. Wait." She held up a hand, and counted on her fingers, "Yeah, three."

Draco stared at her, completely at a loss. She surely had to be pulling his leg.

"It's a manticore," he said.

"Well, if you can survive the manticore, you can survive my family. But I don't want your Malfoy family Dark Lord politics cramping my style in the future. So, here is my proposal to you."

She held out one hand, and the third, unsold silver egg rolled out onto her palm.

"I, Samira, heir of line Singh, set you these challenges three: First, tame the creature that hatches from this egg. Next, clear your name in the court of England. Finally, take the manticore that stalks our forest with you to your homeland, and slay it. If you do these things, we may marry."

Draco looked at her. She looked dead serious. The henna winding around her fingers and wrist began to glow a faint gold.

"You do like me," he said, faintly surprised, "Even though you go out partying every night."

"That's part of the reason I like you," she said, "you don't get in my way."

He considered Samira. This was a formal sort of marriage request from her, very traditional, modern only in that she had issued it directly, rather than having their parents work it out. Magically binding. They had come to know each other quite well over the past few weeks, and Draco found that he did like her well enough.

He took the egg from her hand. "I accept your challenges."

She smiled.

He raised the egg up to eye-level. It was speckled with shimmering flecks of tyrian purple. "What sort of egg is this?" he asked.

Her smile widened, "If I told you, that'd be cheating, wouldn't it?"

* * *

A/N: thanks 4 reading, send me Commentsss


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